A phonograph skips incessantly
at the crest of the final chorus.
No one present to lift the needle
the sounds become a rhythm__
A perpetual motion dance.
But songs must end
even those terrible (and stuck in your head).
Restart the record
to realize happiness understands only things transient.
True hope cannot exist without endings.
9.30.2006
Ed Schreiber
Tackle football in Schreiber’s backyard comes to me upon the back of this chilled wind. Overheated under a double layer of overworn sweats. Gardening gloves used so not to compromise grip. Always rummaging under his grapevine for a long punt. Teams never chosen by the greenest.
We hated our loved friends and siblings as opponents. And when dinner was ready for one, we’d all disperse.
“Hey guys! Let’s play again tomorrow!”
Soon some kids from the other neighborhood came to play. Greggie broke his leg backwards and Schreiber’s backyard became a field free from ruts. Schreiber became a retired biology teacher one year later.
We hated our loved friends and siblings as opponents. And when dinner was ready for one, we’d all disperse.
“Hey guys! Let’s play again tomorrow!”
Soon some kids from the other neighborhood came to play. Greggie broke his leg backwards and Schreiber’s backyard became a field free from ruts. Schreiber became a retired biology teacher one year later.
9.17.2006
How To Chop Wood
Before you can create a flame from the magic dance between dried kindling, you must first master the match. But before that, you must know wood: how to gather it, how to dry it, how to chop it. There is much to learn before proclaiming self-sufficiency, according to any naturalist you might stumble upon under some ancient tree.
Last thanksgiving brought snow and wet cold. You may have forgotten this altogether, having modernity and central heating on your side at Grandma So-and-So’s, while you participated in the annual banality of stuffing yourself as though you too were a turkey. College football on the tele. Aunt Martha on the front davenport with her wine spritzers and trivial woe. Uncle Jerry’s kids quoting Monty Python as though Life of Brian just was about to arrive to the theaters and they were graced with advanced screening passes. Life on holiday just as you would expect it to be. Since all necessity has been handed to you without effort or consequence, food and warmth are as commonplace as the electric carving knife your father annually operates with such pride.
This may be what you know about November’s gathering, and if that is all, you are lucky. Last Thanksgiving we were in Maryland, deep into a white-blanketed forest and privy only to the hollow cracking echoes of shotguns. It was the start of buck season, and if not for the early winter freeze to keep our bird unspoiled outside, venison would have found itself on our menu as well.
If you rent a state cabin well into Autumn, but still don the sleeping bag your mother bought for you decades ago before your first troop outing, be sure to check the box labeled ‘modern’ rather than ‘rustic’ at the ranger’s office. Rustic will leave you with snow drifts inside; they will teach you where each draft swept from to bite you everywhere left bare by the bag designed for a prepubescent version of you.
We found ourselves shacked up in such a shell of a building, built on the backs of Roosevelt’s Civilian Conservation Corps. It would stay standing for another three-quarter century, but never with a belly of warmth when its absence is also felt out-of-doors.
To fight off the numbness present in each finger, I learned how to chop wood with a fury to defy the brilliance of one-hundred thousand matches.
The Park Service had enough pity to supply all that you need: the chopping stump, hand ax, wedge, and sledge. I got to work promptly after dad threw out his back again. “Be careful!” ma says. “You don’t want to end up like uncle Jerry with a hatchet in your kneecap, now do you?!” “You’re right ma.” was my reply and yet my thoughts lacked caution, just as the cold was indifferent to which part of my body it was attacking. You couldn’t feel an ax’s blade with such a chill anyhow.
Later that night, we burnt every last log and splinter while dreaming of anything but stuffing and canned cranberry sauce. Come daylight and not nearly warm enough for snowmelt, we were all huddled together and shivering in unison.
Next time, check the box labeled ‘modern’. Electricity can be nice.
Last thanksgiving brought snow and wet cold. You may have forgotten this altogether, having modernity and central heating on your side at Grandma So-and-So’s, while you participated in the annual banality of stuffing yourself as though you too were a turkey. College football on the tele. Aunt Martha on the front davenport with her wine spritzers and trivial woe. Uncle Jerry’s kids quoting Monty Python as though Life of Brian just was about to arrive to the theaters and they were graced with advanced screening passes. Life on holiday just as you would expect it to be. Since all necessity has been handed to you without effort or consequence, food and warmth are as commonplace as the electric carving knife your father annually operates with such pride.
This may be what you know about November’s gathering, and if that is all, you are lucky. Last Thanksgiving we were in Maryland, deep into a white-blanketed forest and privy only to the hollow cracking echoes of shotguns. It was the start of buck season, and if not for the early winter freeze to keep our bird unspoiled outside, venison would have found itself on our menu as well.
If you rent a state cabin well into Autumn, but still don the sleeping bag your mother bought for you decades ago before your first troop outing, be sure to check the box labeled ‘modern’ rather than ‘rustic’ at the ranger’s office. Rustic will leave you with snow drifts inside; they will teach you where each draft swept from to bite you everywhere left bare by the bag designed for a prepubescent version of you.
We found ourselves shacked up in such a shell of a building, built on the backs of Roosevelt’s Civilian Conservation Corps. It would stay standing for another three-quarter century, but never with a belly of warmth when its absence is also felt out-of-doors.
To fight off the numbness present in each finger, I learned how to chop wood with a fury to defy the brilliance of one-hundred thousand matches.
The Park Service had enough pity to supply all that you need: the chopping stump, hand ax, wedge, and sledge. I got to work promptly after dad threw out his back again. “Be careful!” ma says. “You don’t want to end up like uncle Jerry with a hatchet in your kneecap, now do you?!” “You’re right ma.” was my reply and yet my thoughts lacked caution, just as the cold was indifferent to which part of my body it was attacking. You couldn’t feel an ax’s blade with such a chill anyhow.
Later that night, we burnt every last log and splinter while dreaming of anything but stuffing and canned cranberry sauce. Come daylight and not nearly warm enough for snowmelt, we were all huddled together and shivering in unison.
Next time, check the box labeled ‘modern’. Electricity can be nice.
9.07.2006
Firsts
Under a full moon and surrounded by white marble monoliths casting long shadows, we held hands and bats flitted from tree to bug to tree and deer grazed in silence. In the cemetery, my heart skipped a few beats; a nod to those at rest beneath us, recalling their first kiss under nearly a harvest moon.
"I mean no disrespect," I thought loudly enough to keep those not corporeal at bay, so not to interrupt our heavy embrace.
"I mean no disrespect," I thought loudly enough to keep those not corporeal at bay, so not to interrupt our heavy embrace.
9.02.2006
Hurricane Seasons
Flanked by two heaps of painted sheet metal spewing fumes of spent fossil fuels, I idled a bit stronger, a bit louder, but was still lost in their rumble. I waited an eternity for green and for air not choked by the ghosts of ancient organic matter but was granted only a temporary tunnel. If only I splurged on that sunroof, I could be looking at the sky.
No longer a stingy red, the signal cued my right foot to cue the momentum and my seat to cradle me. I glide homeward bound, with summer air and cicada banter ushering in with volume that familiar wet autumn decay.
No longer a stingy red, the signal cued my right foot to cue the momentum and my seat to cradle me. I glide homeward bound, with summer air and cicada banter ushering in with volume that familiar wet autumn decay.
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